


Is It A Crime

by verbosins



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: 1930s, 1940s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Mobtale, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ecto-Genitalia (Undertale), Ecto-Penis (Undertale), F/M, First Meetings, First Time, Hook-Up, Mafia Sans, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Minor Canonical Character(s), Minor Character Death, Minor Injuries, Minor Original Character(s), Minor Violence, Mob!Sans, Murder, One Shot, Organized Crime, Reader Is A Lounge Singer, Reader Is Not Frisk, Reader has a vagina, Reader is human, Rough Sex, Sans In a Suit, Sans Needs A Hug, Self-Insert, Shameless Smut, Short One Shot, Smoking Sans, Smut, Undermafia, Vaginal Sex, ectodick, ectodong, mafiatale, mob boss sans, reader identifies as female, reader is female, violence against reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 03:39:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8188190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbosins/pseuds/verbosins
Summary: You've made a name for yourself, singing nights in a run-down club that's popular with monster mob grunts. The bar is usually considered too risky to attract the higher-ups. Tonight is different.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Trying to work through my writer's block by throwing together a fic for my favorite Undertale AU.
> 
> (Sans = "The Boss", your employer = "the boss")
> 
>   **Minor Violence, Graphic Sex**

You're a block away from the club when you see them.

 

Coming to an abrupt stop, you inspect the posters your boss had made to advertise you. You can't miss them; they're wallpapering the bridge you have to pass under to get there.

 

**EYES OF NIGHT, LIPS OF FLAME**

**COME SEE EBOTT CITY'S FAVORITE DAME** , the posters declare in bright red letters. And below that, a rather sensationalized image of you crooning into a microphone, wearing a scandalously low-cut dress you've never owned. 

 

Wonder how much the boss paid to make your breasts that big.

 

You wish you could just tear them all down, but your boss is awful proud of them. Besides, you don't have to be an egghead to see that the biggest crowds always come on the nights you sing.

 

Turning up your collar against the impending cold rain, you roll your eyes and pick up the pace, heels clicking against the cobblestones. 

 

\----

 

The club is smoky and warm, stale cigars and cheap liquor a strangely comforting scent after so many years. It's already packed, of course, and lively. 

 

The girl who always sings before you is up on the worn-out stage, looking tired as anything. On the last note of “I'm In the Mood For Love”, she catches your eye and couldn't look more relieved.

 

As you're hanging your coat on one of the tarnished brass coat hooks (no coat-checkers in a joint like this, no sir), she passes by in a hurry.

“You're late,” she spits in her reedy Boston accent. Then, a little softer, “Tough crowd tonight. Good luck.”

 

At the door, she turns and sneers, “Oh, and, nice posters, by the by.”

 

Before you can retort, you see the bartender raise his eyebrows at you and jerk his head toward the clock, urging you onstage.

 

Drat that old clock. It's always making you run behind.

 

You scurry up, straightening your dress, and greet the inebriated crowd. Applause fills the small lounge, and some of the regulars whistle and raise their glasses. You get those familiar excited tingles in the pit of your stomach and nod to the band leader. 

 

It's a seedy place, no doubt about that, and there's no glamour or sophistication in singing here. But it's about the best you can do when your town's run by mobsters. Besides, you don't mind this gig. It's a living. 

 

The management's pretty laid back, if sleazy, and the customers don't bother you. Much. And when some johnny gets too handsy, well, the bouncers sort them out. Between sets you can escape to the tiny room you rent upstairs and listen to your phonograph and read, and that's just fine by you.

 

Half an hour in, after a particularly passionate performance of “Blues In the Night”, your throat is dry and it's time for a break. You've been too wrapped up in your work to notice that things are a little quieter than usual.

 

Stepping down out of the blinding stage lights, you can see now that most patrons are sticking to one side of the room, away from the bar. Seems everyone's decided they like the back better, crowding into the small round tables there. The cigarette girls are nowhere to be seen and the few dancing couples keep shooting wary glances in the door's direction.

 

You shrug it off and, instead of going up to your dressing room as usual, decide to hit up the barkeep for a much-needed drink.

 

That's strange. There's only one guy sitting there, hunched over the bartop. Probably passed out. He's in a much sharper suit than you're used to seeing in this shithole. Deciding it's none of your business, you sit beside him because he's right in front of the bartender anyway. 

 

When you ask the keep for a drink, he doesn't take his usual happy-bordering-on-flirtatious tone with you. Instead, he looks a mite nervous as he fills your glass.

 

The guy to your right, apparently not in a drunken stupor like you thought, sits up suddenly and growls, “sit somewhere else. 'm not interested.”

 

“Good, neither am I,” you shoot back without bothering to look at him. You're used to dealing with these joes' nasty attitudes. 

 

The bartender's sharp gasp at your words confuses you, and when you look up at him, he's holding his breath and looking like he's seen a ghost.

 

“What's gotten into you?” you prod with a laugh. “Don'tcha know how to deal with these pricks by now?”

 

That's when you follow his gaze. And have to do a double-take.

 

Two tar-black eyesockets glare back at you.

 

The laugh dies in your throat. Ice-cold dread washes over you as you realize you'd know that skull anywhere – it's always plastered all over the front pages. 

 

What the hell's the BOSS doing here?

 

You just wait breathlessly, paralyzed in fear, as the furious face that's always under such headlines as “Murdering Mob Boss Walks Free” stares you down. You try to make peace with the fact that you're about to die and no one here will call the cops.

 

Then, miracle of miracles, the skeleton monster relaxes and turns back to staring at his drink. Your back is still ramrod straight as two little white dots fade into his sockets. The bartender looks like he's about to faint.

 

Minutes pass in silence as the Boss swirls his drink around his rock glass, but the tension in the room eventually melts enough for you to take a sip of yours. 

 

The Boss of the monster mob. At this club. Unthinkable. Then, even more surprising, he starts talking. To you.

 

“lost two men tonight. 's why 'm here. where i won't be bothered.”

 

You almost choke on your drink. You're a little shaken at the offhanded way he's just giving you this information. Doesn't seem very wise. He's either at the end of his rope, or at the end of too many bottles.

 

The way his words come tumbling out, it's probably a little of both.

 

“crooked cops. owed me protection money, and i...i took doggo an' lesser dog with me. doggo, i knew he'd be fine, he's got experience, but l.d...”

 

He flicks ashes into the filthy ashtray between you as you watch, chin in your palm, completely entranced. You notice spots of dried blood on the crisp white cuff of his shirt and chills roll down your spine. The realization that he could kill you in the blink of an eye if you so much as look at him wrong isn't comforting. But somehow, you feel he won't.

 

“l.d. was a mistake. shoulda never took 'im on. and now look what happened,” the Boss continues, voice shaking now. “goddammit, he was just a _kid_...”

 

The Boss slams a fist on the bar, making the glasses jump. Thankfully the band has started up again, too loud for anyone to hear the noise. He shakes the pain out of his hand while the barkeep wipes his brow. You stare at his hands a little too long. You've never been this close to a monster before.

 

“if they'd just done what they agreed to do, if they'd just paid us like they were supposed to...if i hadn't tried to make examples out of them...if i'd seen the guys on the roof...”

 

You have no idea how to respond, but he probably doesn't need you to.

 

“i've gotten mad and i've made mistakes because of it,” he says, taking a resigned drag of his cigarette. “probably too many. and now it's hurtin' the people i want to protect.”

 

You can't help but feel a pang of sympathy, even though deep down is the inescapable knowledge that two men (and two monsters) won't be going home to their families tonight because of him. Still, when his eyes become distant, touched with regret, the urge to make sure he's never hurt again suddenly fills you.

 

You're way over break time and the band is running out of backup songs. You bite your lip, trying to decide what to do, but you know you're done if you don't go back onstage. You need this job.

 

“I've gotta get back to work,” you say, putting a hand on the one the Boss is resting on the bar. You're pleasantly surprised when the feeling of bone doesn't instinctively repulse you. He looks at you with just as much surprise. “But I get done in an hour.”

 

It's small, but he quirks the first smile you've ever seen him make. You can't believe how vulnerable he's allowing himself to be. This face...this face won't be seen in the papers.

 

“alright, songbird.”

 

And with that, you give him a lingering smile and walk back to the stage. The band leader's chewing you out but you ignore him and start singing again. This time, the Boss is watching.

 

You can't help but look back at him while you make your music. Those sockets are visible across the room, large and dark and penetrating. The more you sing, the more he seems to loosen up. Is the spotlight a little hotter than usual tonight?

 

When you leave the microphone, the Boss is waiting. Most of the patrons have already cleared out, probably not wanting to take their chances, but it's far from closing time. He's by the stage, wearing a completely different expression than when you first saw him. 

 

As you approach, the skeleton stands from his position leaning against the platform.

 

“so, ebott city's favorite dame.”

 

He takes you by the wrist and pulls you closer, gently enough that you aren't frightened. 

 

“i know you're famous for your solo act,” he says in your ear, “but care to try a duet?”

 

Oof. Who knew the most feared monster in all of Ebott had such corny lines up his sleeve?

 

But his breath is warm on your neck and smells like scotch and the hard bones of his hand feel so good around your wrist and you can feel your quickening pulse beating against them. You think you could suffer through it.

 

No need to say anything, just show him up to your room. He's got your wrist against his mouth as you lead him along, and when he bites it tenderly, your ability to walk is impaired. You're not thinking about how stupid and dangerous this is. You don't even consider checking to see if any eyes are following. You're not considering anything but the other places you'd like him to use his teeth.

 

When the two of you make it to your door, the Boss takes off his battered fedora before crossing the threshold, like he's entering a church. He locks the door behind him with the key from your vanity while you light the lamp sitting there. Your shadows are cast perfectly onto the wall behind your bed. He seems to notice this, too, and gives you a look that makes your chest tighten.

 

Then, he's on you, taking no time to be delicate. While he unbuttons your dress, gnawing at the spot where your neck meets your shoulder, you push his jacket off and onto the floor. He's touching you all over, exploring eagerly but clumsily. You'd love to kiss him, but you're too distracted by his skeletal hands on your hips, squeezing.

 

You step out of your silk slip and go to unbuckle your garter belt – you're glad you happen to be wearing your best one in the lovely blush lace – but he stops you. 

 

“keep that on,” the Boss directs, breathing heavily. He loosens his red tie and you notice more spots of blood on his collar. A new rush of adrenaline floods your senses. Oh, dear god in heaven, what is wrong with you?

 

He's still got everything but his jacket and hat on, but you're stripped down to your brassiere and stockings. 

 

“I'm feeling a little under-dressed here,” you say with a playful pout, but the Boss doesn't seem to hear. His eyes rake you from top to bottom and your face goes even redder than before.

 

The Boss crawls up onto your bed, pushing you to your hands and knees, and situates himself behind you. Just when you have the clarity of mind to wonder exactly how you're going to do this, you hear him unbuttoning his trousers. That's when you feel something warm and hard and unmistakable pushing against your ass.

 

You arch your back, presenting yourself to him, never more desperate for anything in all your life and feeling no shame.

 

The Boss pushes your panties aside and presses himself up against your dripping entrance. An involuntary groan escapes you. A torturous moment passes before you realize he's waiting for your word.

 

You just back yourself onto him instead, and when he slides into you, ye _gods_. Whatever he's packing, it's perfect. The heat is unbearable and absolutely addictive.

 

The Boss' pace is rapid, bordering on frantic, but that suits you just fine. Gripping your hips as though for dear life, he slams into you with enough force that he rubs right up against that wonderful spot inside you with no trouble at all. 

 

It's so much, so fast, you can barely process the overwhelming pleasure. Down go your head and shoulders to the mattress, arms unable to hold you up any longer. This position creates an angle that seems to drive the Boss wild. He groans louder than you knew his voice could go and his thrusts start to get spasmodic.

 

“good girl, good girl,” he keeps panting. He tangles his bone fingers in your hair and tugs, pulling your head back so you can't help but look at the silhouettes on the bedroom wall. When you open your eyes and see yourself lewdly projected up there, joined to the Boss, you come immediately.

 

You clenching around him, calling out in ecstasy, makes the Boss come too. He gives a strangled cry and white-hot streams of what must be his seed fill you up spectacularly, coating you inside and dripping thickly onto your trembling legs. 

 

Collapsing onto the bed, which has probably been creaking loud enough to beat the band, you fight to catch your breath. Beside you, the Boss gasps for air, which is hot and humid and has a telltale scent. Your eyes meet and without thinking, you reach out and touch his white face. You're surprised to find it slick with sweat.

 

You notice in the blur of it all that his cum, in addition to whatever produced it, seems to have dissolved into thin air. Thank goodness for that, saves you doing extra laundry. And, though you're loathe to think about it after such a phenomenal experience, it probably also means that your diaphragm didn't have to do its job.

 

While you're content to linger in the luster a little longer, the Boss is already putting on his hat and re-tightening his tie. You sit up to replace the suspender that fell from his shoulder when he unexpectedly pulls you into a tight embrace.

 

“i'm not us'ally the type to love 'em and leave 'em,” he says with what seems to be genuine remorse. “but as you can imagine, i got some work to do.”

 

He helps you into your dressing gown, then pulls on his jacket.

 

“think you can forgive me?”

 

“No choice, I'm afraid,” you reply, unable to keep a smile from your lips as you see him to the door. “The boss - _my_ boss – doesn't look too kindly on overnight guests.”

 

He stops at the door, taking a moment to get a last good look at you. Those little lights somehow convey more emotion than any eyes you've ever seen. Then, he moves forward to plant a faux kiss that only he could give on your forehead. You close your eyes while your heart breaks into a million pieces.

 

“thanks, songbird.”

 

And then he's gone.

 

You stay in the doorway for a while after he's gone, feeling all of a sudden like you've just experienced a tragic loss. Doesn't matter that you don't know his name, nor he yours. Or that you only met him a few hours ago. What matters is you can still his fingers digging into your thighs, his teeth at your neck, and you hope you never forget.

 

After a few minutes of putting yourself back together, you dress and head back downstairs. You feel like a midnight walk in the rain might do your head some good. 

 

You've got one arm in your coat when you see your boss coming over. The smirk he's got on doesn't exactly comfort you.

 

“I knew you had some sense in ya,” he says around a cigar. “But the boss of the monster mob? Now that's some straight shootin', tex.”

 

You don't say anything, best not to encourage him. He continues anyway, leaning uncomfortably close.

 

“Hope you're plannin' on givin' me my fair share.”

 

You snap your head up, face full of confusion.

 

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

 

“Don't gimme that,” he growls, and his breath reeks of rot gut. “I know what you was doin' up there. And I expect my canaries to cut me in when they get paid to sing.”

 

You get the distinct feeling that you better get out of here, fast.

 

“Don't you know you're not supposed to use your own product?” you snap, pulling your coat on the rest of the way and turning on your heel for the door.

 

Which you now can't see because your vision has gone white. Sharp pain stings your cheek as you stumble into the coat rack from the force of the blow, toppling everything to the floor.

 

“You snooty little _bitch_ ,” he spits through his teeth. “ _I'm_ the one who made it so you could buy that fake mink you're wearin'!”

 

You scream when he pulls back his fist for another strike, but the barkeep leaps forward to hold him back.

 

“Mac,” the keep warns, “We still got customers.”

 

You take that opportunity to escape to the wet street outside, where a tumble into a puddle ruins your nylons. 

 

“Don't you show your face around here again, ya tramp,” your former boss roars after you. You're up and running long before the slam of the door shatters the quiet night.

 

You spend the night in the motel around the corner, burning through your meager savings in one fell swoop and crying yourself into a restless sleep.

 

The next morning, you wake with a determination to take what you can from your room at the club and get the hell out of Ebott.

 

\----

 

The boss almost never comes in this early – you're pretty sure you're safe. You creak the door open slowly and creep across the threadbare carpet, just in case he's decided to be productive for once.

 

“That's one hell of a black eye you're sportin'.”

 

You jump nearly out of your skin at the familiar voice coming from behind the bar.

 

“Yeah, well, I need to get my digs out of my room before I get another to match,” you reply, moving toward the stairs.

 

The bartender looks puzzled. You notice then that he's been busy clearing out the till and filling his pockets.

 

“I'm guessin' you didn't hear. The boss, he...well, let's just say he won't be comin' in tonight. Or ever.”

 

Before you can ask what he means, the phone beside the bar begins to ring. The man scoffs and goes to answer. You're starting off to your room again when the keep calls your name.

 

He turns to you with an uneasy look. 

 

“It's...for you.”

 

You take the receiver incredulously. Who would know or care that you're in at this hour? Before you can ask, you hear the voice of the Boss.

 

“heard what happened to your boss,” he says casually. Fear instantly begins pumping through your veins. “real shame.”

 

You can't seem to find your voice.

 

“meet me at the docks tonight. midnight.”

 

Then he hangs up.

 

All it takes is to feel the throb of your cheek to decide that you'll do it.

 

\----

 

Making your way to the wharf through the empty streets, you heft what little you could grab from your room. Clothes, mostly. A couple of your nicest dresses, some other sentimental things. You had to leave some of your favorite shoes and the few measly pieces of furniture you'd proudly saved up for.

 

Whatever the Boss wants to say to you, this is your last night in this terrible part of town. 

 

Your heart catches in your throat when you see him, alone, at the end of the pier. You watch him for a few moments from the shadows as he looks out over the moonlit bay, hands in his trouser pockets. 

 

The Boss turns when he hears your heels against the wooden dock, wary expression turning to something softer.

 

You quickly look him over for any new bloodstains, anything at all, but the suit he's wearing is freshly-pressed. Still got that ragged old fedora on, though.

 

He speaks first, with a soft chuckle. You can't help but drop your guard.

 

“wasn't sure you'd come.”

 

You feel that blasted smile playing at your lips again. “Now, if only I could figure out what I came _for_.”

 

The Boss wastes no time. “come work for me.”

 

Come again? You search for a hint of comedy in his face, but it's deadly serious. Your mouth goes dry. You swallow in vain and try to think of how on earth you're meant to respond to such a request.

 

“And what...what exactly would I be doing for the Boss of the monster mob?” you ask, voice wavering. “Should I start practicing my best 'Your Honor, I didn't know the gun was loaded'?”

 

He smiles, but there's an underlying tone of insistence. “you'd be taken care of. fed. and protected.”

 

The Boss brings a finger to your blackened eye and strokes it tenderly. In his eyes burns a mixture of anger and contrition.

 

“this will _never_ happen again.”

 

A lump grows in your throat and you take his hand. It's hot and hard, and your skin erupts into goosebumps at the automatic remembrance of the previous night.

 

Your apprehension drops away all at once. Curse your poor judgment.

 

He takes you to his waiting car, drives you away from the misery of the last few hours. 

 

Oh mama, if only she could see you now. From bar singer to mob moll.

 

You weren't looking for him, nor he for you, but maybe, just this once, the unknown won't be so bad.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Please let me know what you thought - I respond to all feedback.
> 
> Yes, I realize this is basically my other fic but set in the 1930s. I'm not very creative.
> 
> The creator of the Mafiatale AU can be found [here](http://nyublackneko.tumblr.com/). (I admit, I don't know much about the AU beyond the setting. >_>' )
> 
> Please check out my [other stuff](http://archiveofourown.org/users/verbosins/works) if you're Sans/Reader trash like me.
> 
> Hit me up on [Tumblr](http://verbosins.tumblr.com/) if you feel so inclined. Sometimes I draw smut in addition to writing it.
> 
>  **Edit:** [I drew what I think the Boss looks like](http://verbosins.tumblr.com/post/156554076433/i-can-see-through-all-of-your-lies-but-still-i) ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ


End file.
